The One Where They Get Drunk
by katiebrownkatie
Summary: Summary's in the title.


The bottle of vodka, now only half full, clanked dully as Sherlock placed it back on the table. His vision was blurred, his head spun whenever he moved, he did not try but he had a feeling that should he try to stand he would find himself face to face with the floor and he was having terrible difficulty controlling the slurred words that threatend to stumble from his lips.

_Oh God, I'm drunk._

This scared him, but not as much as it would of had he been sober. His drunken body taking over, Sherlock rolled over to stare at an equally drunk John who was sitting beside him on the couch starring intently at the drink in his hands.

"Why you, do you wonder?" Sherlock whispered, drunkedly.

"Why me what?" John asked. Surprisingly, he understood Sherlock's slurred words, as only a drunk man can.

"I've never had a friend, John." Sherlock slurred, "No one seems to like me. But you. You don't seem to mind me and to be honest, I don't mind you either. I rather like you. But why? What's so special about you?" Sherlock implored, looking hard at John. This had been something that had been troubling his thoughts quite a lot lately.

John thought about it for a second, humming to himself, "I'm a nice person, maybe?"

"Lot's of people are _nice_, John. I don't care about nice."

"My wit, then."

"You're not that witty." Sherlock laughed, "You're not witty at all, actually."

"I'm charming." John offered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "C'mon, John. Be serious."

"Fuck you, I am being serious." John pouted, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You're not overly smart or observant, you badger me non-stop about getting milk, you're not particularily nice, quite mean when you want to be, actually. To people who don't know you, you can be quite intimidating. So what is it?"

John took a swig of his drink, allowing Sherlock's words to sink in. His fuzzy brain was having a hard time understanding anything. "Is that supposed to be an insult?"

"Oh, you're no help!" Sherlock sighed dramatically, flopping back against the cushions.

A few moments passed before John broke the silence, "I trust you." He shrugged.

Sherlock glanced up and caught eyes with John in a long, hard stare. John had the sudden urge to reach out and touch Sherlock, maybe his cheek or his hair. Run a hand through those unruly, dark curls. John shrugged it off and took another drink.

"I suppose you're the only person in the world who does," Sherlock smiled, reaching out to take a drink himself. "I'm glad for that."

John grinned. A few more moments of silence passed. This time Sherlock broke it, "John."

"Mmm?"

Sherlock propped his elbow on the couch pillow between them, pinky up, "Promise me you won't ever leave me. I wouldn't want to lose my only friend," he whispered.

"I promise." John smiled as he twisted his pinky around Sherlock's and gave it a squeeze. They held on for a few seconds before their hands fell onto the couch in a tangled mess. Niether man made to move their hand.

After some time, John decided it would be in his best interest to atleast get a few hours of sleep. He slipped his hand out from under Sherlock's, to which Sherlock took no notice, and pushed up from the couch…

…and promptly collapsed in a heap on the floor.

"Fuck it. I'm drunk." He mumbled into the floor. Deciding the floor was good enough as he rolled onto his side and closed his eyes.

He heard a thump as Sherlock landed on his hands and knees beside him. Sherlock teetered for a few seconds before the alcohol completely took over and he landed in an ungraceful pile beside John. He awkwardly reached behind himself, procured a blanket from under the chair and threw it at John.

John quickly unfolded it, carefully laid it around himself and then pulled the side closest to Sherlock up and looked expectantly at Sherlock. Sherlock hesitated. He knew there was a reason why sober Sherlock would object to this. There was something not right about it but for some reason he couldn't be bothered to remember it. He shuffled a little closer and felt John place the blanket on his shoulders.

They laid face to face, breath mingling in the air between them, warming their necks pleasantly, and the pairs of legs that poked out of the too short blanket lay carelessly entwined as they both began to fall asleep.

Before sleep overcame them, Sherlock quickly reached out and clasped John's warm hands, deciding that nothing could ever be wrong with falling asleep, drunk, with your best friend.


End file.
